The Martyr Line
by Mr.Sweet-and-Awful
Summary: Trust. That's what Thatcher Mitchell craves. With women, with his family, with himself. Is it necessary? Or even beneficial? For a quiet, comfortably numb life in District 7, probably not. But, what of the violence that lies ahead? Perhaps, there, Thatcher can build trust. Trust is beautiful, trust is difficult- and trust is dangerous. Let the 24th Annual Hunger Games begin.
1. Chapter 1

_Please bear with me for this first chapter- it's pretty much just angst. Very necessary, though, to set up the rest of the story. _

* * *

**Chapter 1**

* * *

I'm sitting at the bottom of this crazy big hill, and I'm looking up and forward into an expanse of trees.

Imagine that, huh? Trees in District 7. I should probably be tired of trees by this point, what with the lumber milling tedium I'm exposed to daily. But I'm not. Not yet anyway– I'm still in school, though. I haven't started working with the millers yet. (Once a boy finishes school around here, working in the mills is pretty much inevitable, unless you're a shop keeper or something.) Anyway, trees are still almost my favorite thing to look at.

Almost. My _absolute_ favorite thing to look at, well, she'll be meeting me here shortly. That sounds sappy as hell, I know, but it's the pure truth. Her name's Miria. Miria Fruitsdale.

I think I'm kind of in love with her.

While I wait, I roll a cigarette. I'm one of the only people I know who rolls their own cigarettes; there are pre-rolled, pre-packaged smokes available, that they import straight from the Capitol. Pretty cheap, too. I just like rolling my own; it's nice to have little things to do with your hands, to take your mind off of things. I worry about a lot of irrational stuff, so it's nice to pull out my little tobacco tin, sit down, and distract myself for a bit.

Miria's taking a while. She probably just got caught up chatting with someone on the way here. No big deal.

But now I've smoked my cigarette nigh down to its end, and she's still not here. The sun's not yet setting, but it's getting there. Dusk is fast approaching. Where could she be?

Well, wherever she is, her absence is giving me ample time to worry about things. Wonderful. My mind can scarce decide what to be anxious about first. It settles on worrying about Miria. Or rather, how Miria feels about me.

I mean, we're "together". It's as official as this sort of thing gets around here, shy of marriage; everyone associates us together. One doesn't hear the name Thatcher Mitchell without thoughts of Miria Fruitsdale coming to mind. And vice-versa.

We trust each other. I trust her, leastways. And she seems to trust me. We've shared plenty of "intimate moments". A sight more than I shared with any girl previously. The fact that she trusts me that much, that makes me happy. Exceedingly so. More so than the moments themselves, to tell you the truth. I'm actually her first "suitor"(as folks around here call it), and that actually surprised the hell out of me, let me tell you . She's not _my _first; but I'm beginning to hope she's my last, honestly.

That nagging, irrational part of me though, it's beginning to sway me to believe that something's changing between Miria and I. It has a point. I think it does. Used to, Miria indeed seemed just as ecstatic as I was about us being together. Sappy-ass love letters all the time. Using every single available second to steal a visit with each other. Talking about our future together. The whole deal.

None of that anymore, though. Which is probably normal. It's probably completely normal. Yeah. You see, that's why I call it the irrational part of me. No worries. I can move on with my thoughts.

So I move on. What else can I think about?

The Reaping.

Tomorrow.

You know, I think I'd prefer to go back to my previous line of thought. That word, _Reaping_, it makes me physically sick. I really think I may puke right now.

I look up, and Miria's approaching. Oh thank goodness. I smile at her. She smiles back, but it seems half-hearted. It's probably an absolutely normal smile, though. I told you I worry about stupid things.

"Hey ", I say, standing up. I walk toward her as she's walking toward me, and we embrace.

"Hey", she says back. I lean down to kiss her, but, to my surprise, she averts her head.

"Sorry, I'm kinda sick right now. My sinuses and stuff, you know? I dunno exactly what it is, but I'd hate for you to catch it too." As she says this, I start blushing for whatever reason. I guess it embarrasses me, at some level, to do something she didn't want me to do. She smiles at me reassuringly, though, and I just give her a peck on the forehead. We sit down in our usual spot at the foot of that colossal hill.

We go through all the normal stuff. You know. I ask her how her day was. I listen. She does the same for me. Then we just sort of sit there for a while, not saying much of anything. Usually, that's great– just being there with her. Loving each other. It's different today though. There's something else here.

Tension, I guess that's how I'd describe it.

She's lying against my chest. One of my hands is laced with hers, and my other is playing around with her golden hair.

"So you're afraid I'd get sick if I kissed you?"

"Yeah. I don't know if it's contagious, but I'd hate to find out it was."

"Hm", I say. I smile. "I think that's a risk I'm willing to take." I lean my head towards her again.

"Thatch, stop." She sits up, and release her hand from mine. "Look, I've got all kinds of, you know, phlegmy stuff in my throat. It'd make kissing pretty unpleasant. Okay? Just stop."

Fine. That's fine. Really. I don't care too much about the kissing- I can go one goddam day without kissing Miria. That's not what's bothering me though. There's plenty else bothering me. This tension has reached it's breaking point, and I'm afraid I might act on it, irrational or not.

"Miria, do you feel the same way about me? As you did at first I mean?"

I surprised myself with that one. It just sort of spilled out of me. Oh well. Now the irrational thoughts are out in the open, and Miria can dismiss them, and we can go on being the happy, perfect couple we've been. I'm glad I asked._ Glad._

Miria looks me straight in the eye. She looks alarmed at first, but then she sighs, and turns her eyes to the hill above us.

"I'm just going to be honest and tell you no."

That's what she said. What exactly does that mean, though? My mind's not processing it for some reason. _No_? Is that what she just said?

Neither of us say anything. She looks rather alarmed again.

Things are beginning to dawn on me. Truly, they are. For better or worse. "Miria, I was afraid of that. I really was."

"I'm sorry."

"I mean... do you feel nothing? Nothing at all?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry."

"Stop saying you're sorry."

"But I am, Thatcher. I'm sorry. I knew this was going to hurt you."

I just sit there. I sit there and drink in her words for a minutes or two. Then I chuckle a little, and say, "No. If you were sorry, you wouldn't be telling me this in the first place."

"Thatcher–"

"Well when the hell were you planning on telling me, huh? If I hadn't have asked, when would I have found out?"

"I planned on telling you today. But Thatcher, just listen-"

"No, _you_ listen." I stand up now. Admittedly, my anger is flaring up. Just a bit. "Just tell me how in the hell you can... how the hell you can do that! How can you start feeling nothing all the sudden?"

"I don't know what to tell you, Thatcher! Don't be a baby about it."

Yeah, my anger begins to flare up just a _bit_ more. More than a bit, maybe. I'm pretty much yelling at maximum by this point. "Don't be a baby? Don't be a goddam _baby_ about it? Did that really just come out of your mouth?"

Miria just stares at me, clenching her teeth. Her attempts at looking indignant usually turn out rather adorably, but I'm having trouble appreciating it at the moment. Wonder why?

"You know, you're just showing your true colors now Thatcher. You really are. I'm _glad_ I ended it no later than this. It was a long time coming."

I look at her, and my mouth is hanging open. This has all happened so unbelievably _quickly_. I'm rather dumbstruck, to tell you the truth. I can feel tears trying to form themselves in my eyes, but I do my best not to give them the opportunity.

I wipe my hand across my eyes and close my mouth. Close it so hard I can scarce believe my teeth didn't shatter. Angry doesn't even begin to describe how I feel. I don't even really _feel_ angry– I have become anger. A simple, childlike, tantrum inducing rage has become me. "Fine! Get the fuck out of here, then!" I regret it as soon as I say it; I don't really think any woman should be spoken to like that, under any circumstances, honestly. But I can't exactly apologize for saying it.

She huffs a little, and then storms off. As soon as she's safely out of sight, I flop back down to where I was sitting.

I fumble around in my shirt pocket, for my tobacco tin. I try rolling a cigarette, but my hands are shaking like no tomorrow. I spill the damn thing all in my lap, and throw the empty tin against a tree. And I remember the Reaping.

Now I just cry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

I wake up with my shorts sticking to me in an uncomfortable cold sweat. Partially due to the heat, I suppose. The impending Reaping can't have helped matters though.

My dreams last night were awful. I can't at all remember what happened in them, but those are the worst kind if you ask me– those that leave you with dreadful, unresolved feelings. I don't think I dreamed about Miria, though, but I guess I really can't be sure. All I'm sure of is that the dreams already have me in a bad humor.

I'm first awake in the house. I usually am. I'm sure my mother will be up soon, to cook breakfast (not typical of her, but she goes out of her way to do so every Reaping). Once she's up, it'll still be a bit before my brothers get up, and even then it will be by force. How in the hell they can sleep soundly on a day like this boggles my mind. My sister will be up some time later, but she's not yet twelve yet, so she mustn't yet worry anyway. I don't sleep soundly on less shitty days. To be completely honest with you, I can't remember having an actual good, satisfying, night of sleep since I was, oh, seven years old or so. Besides one time when I fell asleep with Miria.. That was only once, when we fell asleep at the foot of the big hill. Seven hours asleep in the woods. We were reported missing; a couple of Peacekeepers were out searching for us and everything. Our parents were not happy the next morning, to say the least.

Point is, my last good night's sleep was had in the woods with a liar.

I decide I'm gonna bathe in the river today. I don't know how things are done elsewhere, but that's not at all uncommon around District 7. The poorer parts at least. I mean, we have an aluminum tub here at the house, but I'm too lazy to fill it up right now.

Dressed in the clothes I wore yesterday, and a frayed, dried up towel (being the only one I could find) hanging over my shoulder, I make my way down to the water. I'm thinking I'll have little trouble finding an isolated spot today. Most people sleep in (or try to) on Reapings, and it's around five in the morning.

We have this dog, her name's Gossamer, though I doubt she'd answer to that. We usually call her Goss, or "baby". Honestly, the poor thing is probably convinced that her name is Baby. Dogs are commonplace in District 7, what with all the forestry and scouting that's done on a daily basis; dogs can be useful for detecting, or even ridding oneself of, things like bobcats and coyotes. She's decided, after charging up on me, running in circles around my legs, and furiously licking and gnawing at my forearm, to follow me to the river. She loves swimming We got her from one of our neighbors who had a large litter they had to give away, and she's one of my favorite things in the world. Probably the only thing that can make me spontaneously smile. Besides that other thing that's recently exited my life. Now that I think about it, the two things that make me spontaneously smile are bitches.

That was uncalled for.

Anyway. I found a spot to myself at what's commonly known as the Fig River. (I have no inkling as to why it's called that, as I have never seen, nor do I now see, any figs growing on its embankment.)

I shed yesterday's clothes and step into the river.

As I go about bathing myself, I try not to think of anything but washing the grime from my body. I cannot afford to obsess over anything irrational when I have very valid, and very tangible, worries about the Reaping hanging over my head. Not thinking is a heroic task, I assure you. I really need a smoke, and I'm mentally kicking myself for spilling the tobacco yesterday. I try just to focus on Goss splashing around and snapping at frogs.

Inevitably, the obsessions come, though. A new thought comes to mind. Or perhaps it isn't new, but only now fully realized: perhaps Miria's met someone else. I never even asked her. Hell, that's going to worry me now. I try to sort through my feelings, as best I can. How would that make me feel, if she did meet someone else? Angry? Sad? Indifferent?

Admittedly, the indifference idea is a pipe-dream.

Now I'm done with my bath, and I don't feel like putting on my dirty clothes, so I wrap the old towel around my waist, slip on my boots (I hate dirty feet), and walk back to the house bare chested. No one should be awake right now anyway, but I'd scarce care if they were.

As I'm rounding this giant oak that mostly obscure the path down to the spot where I was bathing, I see this kid that I know. His name's Bran; he's thirteen. For a younger kid, he's pretty smart. You can carry on a pretty enjoyable conversation with him. He also happens to be Miria's closest cousin.

Breaks. I don't catch any.

He starts to turn back. I guess he thought I was heading down to the river, as opposed to leaving it.

"Hey, Bran," I tell him. "I'm done, man, if you were going down there."

He turns back around. "Yeah I was. I thought you were about to go down there though."

We don't say anything as he walks in my direction and I his. Understandably awkward; Bran's pretty much the brother Miria never had. I'm sure he's already heard her rant about me.

Bran finally does say something, though. Shyly, "Miria's really pissed, you know."

I sigh. "I'd imagine so."

"She says you're a chauvinist and a baby."

"Valid, maybe."

"Asshole, too."

"Perhaps."

"And a brooding girly-boy."

"Geez, Bran, feel free to hold something back. Anyway, she thinks I'm a chauvinist _and _a girly-boy?"

"I guess so. I dunno." He looks down at the ground. "I thought it was kind of cool. You and Miria being together."

I scratch at the stubble on my chin. It's a tick of mine, especially evident when I'm trying to suppress something. So, you know, it's pretty much a constant tick of mine. "Well, I thought it was cool too. Take it up with Miria. Her decision."

"Alright. Bye Thatcher."

I tell him bye, but as he's walking away, I call out his name. There's something else I want to ask him.

"Hey, is there, you know, some other guy that Miria's maybe hanging around with now?"

Bran's face reddens. Answer enough for me. "I. Um. I'm not sure, really. Bye Thatcher." He leaves so quickly he's damn near running.

Yes. All the answer I need.

I get home and my mom's up. Breakfast is cooked, as predicted. M youngest brother Tanner's up. Timber's up (no joke, that's his name. I don't think it gets much more stereotypically District 7 than that.) My sister Trinity is up. Understandably, but no less bothersomely, there's no more than half of a griddle cake and a puny piece of bacon left.

"Thank you for saving something for me, dearest family of mine."

My mother looks at me, offense painted across her plump, accusatory face. "Now how in the hell are we supposed to save you something to eat when you're off goodness knows where at five o'clock in the damn morning?" She snorted. "Should've gotten something from Miria's house I guess."

Now, there is no way for my mother to understand how I'm feeling right now. There is no conceivable way for her to be aware of yesterday evening's events. So I stay my fury. Barely. I barely contain myself, say nothing, and go to my room to get dressed.

I have one pair of semi-acceptable dress clothes. Just semi-acceptable, though. The white long-sleeve button-up I'm wearing is a bit frayed around the hem, but it stays tucked in so no one will notice. Two of the buttons have been sewn on multiple times. I roll up the sleeves to my elbow, and augment this with a pair of slightly faded, tapered dress slacks, that, while rather hideously worn at this point, fit close to my leg like I like them. I put on some socks and the least shabby of my two pairs of boots. I decide to wear my glasses. I've been walking around without them today. Didn't wear them yesterday, either. Sure, I'm blind without them. But I swear no one takes me seriously when I'm wearing them. Or maybe I can just more clearly see their faces not taking me seriously?

Here we are. The big day. The Reaping.

I might crap myself.

I've never been this nervous about it. Never. Maybe it's because it's my last Reaping. I'm 18; I'm in the homestretch. There are nine instances of my name in one of those enormous glass bowls on stage. (I've only had to take tesserae out twice; we do rather well for ourselves, and District 7 is generally much less impoverished than some of the other tesserae districts. That's what a Peacekeeper told me once anyway.)

The town square, while not surrounded immediately by trees, still has curtains of tall pines surrounding it, about three miles away on each side. The town section of District 7 is in the town's very center, but that's virtually where the organization ends. The rest of the town is sprawled out a bit haphazardly. I've heard that the town hall stood before the Dark Days, but the rest of the town was rather virginal. I don't know if it's true, though.

We have five living victors. They're seated up on stage, four men and a woman. Kind of impressive. With all of District 7's wood-chopping, slinging an axe into someone's throat must be second nature.

I'm trying to make myself laugh, but that thought just made me shiver.

The mayor takes the stage. He's this skinny little guy with a pencil thin mustache who must be at least 50, but has never married. He's always wearing this manic smile on his face, like he just heard the funniest damn joke in the entire world. He creeps me out.

With a voice that's far too deep for his stature, the mayor booms into the microphone, "Happy Hunger Games!"

Oh goodness. I'm clenching my jaw and trying to look like some kind of badass, but I am really scared now to tell you the truth. My hands are trembling so bad they're nearly jumping, so I do my best to ball them into fists and jab them into my pockets.

The mayor goes through the history nonsense. The Dark Days. The Rebellion. Thirteen Districts (minus one), two children offered in Tribute. Yada-yada. Anyone out here over the age of five could most likely recite it by heart.

Now, the floor goes to Coponious Mastiff, our escort three years running. He's a young man; can't be more than thirty. The girls find him handsome for whatever reason. I don't see it. He has this ghastly, purple, slicked back hair, and these awful purple sideburns that kind of curl into a mutton chop sort of deal. He's always wearing some kind of purple clothing, too. This year, it's a tight fitting white coat and pants, with purple shirt and shoes. Capitol people are weird.

He's also cocky as hell. I guess that's why the girls like him.

"Hello there, District 7," he say, with a smirk. "How are you fine folks doing today?"

There's quite a crowd response. More than there should be, for sure, but it's probably just the horny teenage girls that find that plum colored monstrosity attractive. I hope so, though that's bad enough. This guy's about to murder a child by proxy. I'm not sure my peers understand this. Much less the fact that one of them could be that murdered child.

"Wonderful! Happy Hunger Games!"

More response.

"And..."

Oh no. Here it comes.

"May the odds be ever in _your_ favor!" He winks. The bastard winks.

Well, on the bright side, my disgust has clouded out a bit of my anxiety.

Coponious walks over to the first bowl, filled near to the brim with little slips of paper.

"Alright, ladies. It's your turn." He reaches his hand in. "Good luck."

He makes a big show of gracefully swimming through the slips of paper, as if the speed with which he picks a piece will affect his selection.

I honestly have little worry about the female selection. Miria's nineteen years old, so she can't be drawn anyway. Though I hate that I still consider worrying about her.

I mean, I have a couple of friends that I'd hate to see get selected, but that's happened before. My friend Megan Langley got selected one year. We were pretty close friends, too. She's not sitting up there in the victors section. She was so sweet, I knew she wouldn't be able to kill anyone. She didn't. Died in the Cornucopia within a _minute_.

But I'm much more worried about the male selection. That could mean Timber, or Tanner. Or me. But it seems very conceited to admit that I'm worrying about myself like that.

Coponious draws his hand out. "Let's see here." He reads the slip of paper. "Our lucky lady is... Ms. Juno Ogden! Come on up!"

Well, she's not one of my friends. I don't know her at all, actually. She's making her way up to the stage now, her face... just dead looking. I can't blame her.

She's rather pretty. Nothing to match my typical tastes, but pretty. Nicely tanned skin, dark hair and eyes. Tall, slim, athletic. I'd wager she's training to be a Climber.

Or was.

So Coponious pats her on the back and whatnot. Smiles at her, congratulates her. Her face remains dead, expressionless. I respect that.

Coponious is still smiling, though. "Alright, fellas, it's your go!"

There he goes again, wriggling his arm around inside the bowl. The male one this time, of course. I wish he'd hurry it up.

I am sweating. My teeth are chattering. I'm shaking, and I can't stop myself. Tanner. Timber. Please, don't let it be one of them. And, still, I think, this is my last year. _Don't let it be me._

It's not. It's some other kid. Not Tanner, not Timber, not me! We're good! I'm good! I'm home free. No more fretting over my own selection. Now I'll only have to fret for my siblings until they make it through. But me, I'm safe.

Bran's not.

"Branson Caldwell! Come on up here, brother!"

_Bran. _No. Damn it. Damn it damn it damn it. Why does this worry me? It's just Miria's cousin. I mean, sure, I like the guy. I like a lot of people though.

_Don't do anything stupid,_ I tell myself. _Please don't do anything stupid._

Bran's made it up to the steps of the stage. He's crying already. I feel sorry for the little guy. It's killing me. He was a good kid.

He's walking across the stage.

_This is your last year, don't be stupid._

All those memories of me and Miria babysitting him and his brother flash through my head. I used to play catch with him and stuff. I'd help him with school compositions. _Shit._

Coponious is about to put his hand on Bran's shoulder.

_Don't be stupid._

I hear a guy yell, "Hey!"

What was that all the sudden? Guess someone's volunteering. Oh my. What a relief.

"I, uh. I volunteer. I volunteer for Bran." The guy's voice is pretty shaky. Deep, but shaky. He's trying to sound tough, but failing.

Now everyone's looking at _me._ Why's that?

Oh. Oh I see.

I guess I'm going to be playing the Hunger Games.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Though I've mentioned that Thatcher is more or less an avatar of myself in the Hunger Games universe, from hereon out (and **Chapter 2** as well, really) nothing is written with the intention of depicting real people or events; with the exception of Thatcher, in that his actions will probably reflect my own.  
I'm sure this disclaimer was mostly unnecessary and no one cares too much, but I felt it was important nonetheless.

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****

Chapter 3  


* * *

I make my way up to the stage, not hesitating, or standing there with my mouth hanging open, or crying, like you see most people do. I'm not much for succumbing to shock. It's in those moments of terror that I start acting like a normal damn human being, to tell you the truth. The anxiety comes with waiting for the terror, which was most everyday prior to now; the terror itself has no grip on me.  
As I walk up the steps, I catch a glimpse of Miria's face. Boy is that a sight to behold. It's almost funny, seeing how surprised she is. I decide I'll surprise her further, so I smile and wink in her general direction. Yeah, I don't know. I'm a complete maniac sometimes.  
Bran's just standing there at the steps, still. I don't really find his surprise all that funny.  
Coponious wraps his arm around me. The bastard. He's not quite as tall as me either, so it's kind of awkward. "Well, look here folks! Our first volunteer in, what, five years?" He looks over to the victors' row to confirm, and a young, grave looking black woman by the name of Gretel nods. "Five years, folks! I'm going to take a wild guess here, buddy, and say that boy must've been your little brother?"  
"He's not."  
I can see a slight look of annoyance flash across Coponious's slim, purple framed face, but he still has that same arrogant grin. He doesn't like being wrong, I can tell. I find this quite funny, as well. "Well, excuse me then, buddy. Not your brother? Well I can't imagine a guy going to the trouble of stealing all the glory from some random village kid. Can you?" He looks out to the crowd, smiling. Some of them laugh, and clap. I can't believe I've gone all of these years not utterly hating these people.  
"Don't call me buddy."  
Coponious laughs, and brings his microphone in closer. "What was that, now?"  
"I said don't call me buddy. It's obnoxious."  
There's a silence. That's satisfying. I think I've embarrassed Coponious a little, because even he's speechless. That's infinitely more satisfying. The microphone is still in my face. "I volunteered because I've lived longer. I'm 17, that kid's 12. I'm almost a man. Better to murder a man than a child." I smile at Coponious. "Wouldn't you say?"  
That was not probably not a good idea. Probably not a good idea at all.  
The silence persists a moment, and Coponious takes the mic back up to his face. He starts to say something, but I can tell that it's been switched off. Now the telescreen behind him shuts off as well. Peacekeepers swarm from their positions around the crowd, and begin ordering and nudging the spectators. The ceremony has ended early, evidently.

An official looking woman (obviously from the Capitol, judging by her attire) is whispering something into Coponious's ear. He nods. His smile's gone.  
Before I know it, two peacekeepers have grabbed me. I'm not at all resisting, really, but they handle me like I'm liable to attempt escape at any moment. They lead me off the stage, towards the town hall like that, pushing me forward, clasping my arms. I'm surprised they don't just put the damn handcuffs on me. Ahead, I can see Juno being led by a single peacekeeper, in the same direction. She's not getting the same treatment as I am. But she didn't say what I said either, I suppose. Come to think of it, what I said was in direct defiance of the Capitol, wasn't it? I implied that the Games weren't the honorable and glorious pageantry that the Capitol would have us believe they are.  
But really, what can they do to me? I've virtually signed my death warrant by volunteering in the first place. I don't very much intend on surviving. Maybe they'll put a bullet through my head before the games even begin. I don't know. I've never seen anything like this happen.  
We enter the town hall. This is the first time I've ever been inside, and it's a very nice place, but rather strange. I've never seen anything like it. Marble floors, ornate paintings up on the walls. Plush, velvet couches. Very ritzy.  
Ahead, I see Juno being led through a doorway. Soon, the peacekeepers lead me (or shove me, more like it) into my own room. They force me onto blue loveseat. It's probably the most comfortable thing I've ever sat on, but the handcuffs they're slapping on my wrists are, admittedly, doing quite a bit to take away from the experience.  
"Now you sit your ass still 'til the mayor gets in here, you got me?" says one of the peacekeepers. A young, shot guy. Really short, must be a little over five feet tall. To look at him, he couldn't be much older than me. That's probably why he's being so hostile, if I had to guess.  
"Why's the mayor coming in here?" I ask.  
"To talk to you, numbnuts, what d'ya think?" says the other peacekeeper. A dark skinned guy, with a crooked nose. He doesn't sound so much hostile as annoyed. "You can't say stuff like that, on live television, in front of the whole damn country. What the hell's wrong with you kid?"  
Good question, peacekeeper man. I don't respond though. I sink down low enough to lean my head back against the loveseat, and I sit there like that. The peacekeepers eventually walk out, and I hear another person walk in. Footsteps much lighter than the heavy clomp of the peacekeeper boots. The door closes.  
As soon as I can lift my head to see who's arrived, someone's sitting beside me. I jump, in a twisty spastic motion. I don't like being caught unaware. With my reaction, I bump into the lamp that was resting on the end table beside me. It spins in a couple of quick, small circles on its base, and then shatters on the marble floor. I would've lunged to catch it, but, you know. Handcuffs.  
Sitting beside me, I now see, is the little mayor, with his inhuman smile and tiny mustache. He's still smiling. He looks down at the dearly departed lamp. And back to me. And back to the lamp. And back to me.  
Still smiling. Goodness, man, stop smiling.  
"I really adored that lamp, Mr. Mitchell."  
I'm not sure what to say. I can't tell if he's angry or not. He's still smiling!  
"I'm sorry."  
"It's no enormous disaster, I suppose. We have just oodles of the things. It can be replaced." he says. "But it's still a shame to see something so cute go to waste, ain't it?"  
Um.  
"Um." I say.

He laughs, and pats me on the leg. I do not enjoy this situation very much. Not very much at all. "Well now, I see we had a little slip of the tongue up there on stage didn't we, pal?"

"You could call it that."  
He's still smiling. "Well yes I certainly could. Let me tell you something, Mr. Mitchell." He leans in closer. Too close. "You know how fast them messages from the Capitol came in, as soon as you had your little slip of the tongue?"  
"I don't."  
He snapped his fingers. "Just like that my friend." He leaned in closer still. "Faster than you could inhale a breath after saying what you said."

A pause. I guess he's waiting for a response. I honestly don't have one.  
He goes on. He's retreated a tiny bit, giving me back a very precious portion of the personal space that I want more than anything right now. But still, that smile. "Seems to me that's a pretty big deal. Didn't even finish the Reaping ceremony." He chuckles. "Imagine that, huh?"  
"Yeah", I try to grin a little, but it probably comes out as a grimace. I just want this to be over. "Pretty crazy stuff."  
"Pretty crazy stuff." More chuckling. "Now that's a way to put it, ain't it?"  
And then he's right on top of me. I didn't even see him coming at me; it happened just as quick as his sneaking up to me on the loveseat. One hand is clawing at my hair, and the other is gripped to my throat.  
He's still smiling. "Look at me, pal. Look at me. Do you know what could happen because of that? Do you?" I tried shaking my head, but current circumstances made that difficult. "There could be an army of peacekeepers here by this afternoon, pal. I could be executed by morning. They could take your entire family, and everyone you've ever loved, besides, pal, and have them publicly flogged. Or executed as well, pal."

He's still smiling. I can't breath now. His fingers are clasped around my windpipe.  
Very gently, he releases me. I gasp for air.  
He pats down my hair where he nearly yanked it out. "So you need to watch what you say from here on out, okay Mr. Mitchell? I didn't mean to scare you now, pal, but this is a very real problem. Perhaps no action will be taken. Perhaps they cut your mic, perhaps the rest of Panem didn't hear a thing. But you have to be extra careful, okay pal? For me, and for the rest of the District. Do you understand?"  
I nod. Quickly. I'm not sure I've ever been more scared and confused in my life.  
With a soft pat on the leg, the mayor leaves. I see the bright white flash of his smile as he turns around to close the door.  
I'm still gasping for air. I'm scared out of my wits, and what I need is time alone. But the door opens again, and entering in is the last person I'd like to speak to at the moment.  
Miria walks in. She walks until she's about two feet in front of me, and then stands there. She rubs her hand across her face and sighs. Like me going off to die is annoying her or something.  
First words out of her mouth, "What the hell is wrong with you?" Twice I've been asked that today. _Twice._  
"What? I saved your cousin's life, you ungrateful bitch!" Gah. More things I shouldn't have said. There was no reason to throw that insult in there (not that she doesn't deserve it). I seem to be having massive issues with holding my tongue today.  
"So you think being an idiot and risking your life is going to impress me? Is this you trying to win me back? Is that it?"  
I don't say anything in response for a moment because Miria Fruitsdale, in those three sentences, completely annihilated any respect or lingering affection I had for her. Utterly, and in entirety.  
"You really think I did this for you, huh? You are so hopelessly self-centered, that you think I'm putting my own life at risk for the sake of your heart."  
She starts to speak, but the door opens and a head pops in to inform her that she has a minute left. In inform the peacekeeper that she doesn't need that minute, and Miria's face reddens, furious, I suppose, at the thought of her presence not being adored by me.  
"Well fine! You're a -", she searches for the most piercing words she can, I suppose. "You're a pitiful, childish excuse for a man, Thatcher Mitchell. An absolute child!"  
"Well and good. Did you plan on taking a pause in your bitching to thank me for saving your cousin's life? Or did that never occur to you?"  
"I was going to thank you, Thatcher, yes! But you had to go and be a baby, as usual, so no!"  
"Guards, I'm pretty sure that minute's up."  
She lets out a furious sound that's something like a squeal, and stomps out.


End file.
